


Untitled Xmas Fic, 2012

by golden_bastet



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_bastet/pseuds/golden_bastet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What really is New Year's Eve, anyway?...</p><p>See end notes for warnings, if you'd like to know that kind of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Xmas Fic, 2012

And he drove on. 

The road spread out ahead of him, a black carpet unfurling with the headlights. The steering wheel beneath his fingers responded like an extension of his limbs, the vehicle itself a living thing hurtling him through the winter darkness towards an unknown destination. 

He couldn't remember much beyond the memory of steering the car through the darkness. What had come before, what he'd been tasked with doing. _Why_ he'd been tasked with doing it. The thought played at the edge of his consciousness; but, like a shy schoolgirl, it lingered just beyond, refusing to come forward into the light and be recognized. 

Truthfully, he wasn't even sure who he was, raising a sensation that ate away at the edges of his consciousness. Well, he knew his name _Bodie_ , and knew he belonged in the silver bullet-like car; knew that he had a responsibility to carry out. But what that responsibility was, or just who Bodie was, escaped him.

 _Off here._ He angled the car towards an exit ramp, peeling away from the empty motorway. His headlights illuminated the striped pavement markings racing by. But _not there yet_ \- there was a way to go, though he knew this was the right direction. 

There was something more to remember; he just wasn't sure what.

After some miles he slowed to pull off into a smaller lane, the tires suddenly crunching along gravel. _Soon now;_ and sure enough, a little farther on and up ahead a cottage slowly emerged from the gloom. That was it, where he was meant to stop. Bodie slid the car up to the door and put the gear into neutral. Turned the key in the ignition, slipped it out, palmed the key. Stepped out, closed the door behind him.

Him, and the quiet, just the tink-tink-tink of the cooling engine.

_Boot needs to be open._

The door of the cottage was no hindrance; the knob, already unlocked ( _grasp the handle_ ), turned easily in his hand. The entry was small and welcoming, in keeping with the cottage, blind to the presence of this stranger. He moved surely down the short hall towards the study, leaving no marks on the worn carpet. His task lay beyond that door.

_S'time._

Just as he opened the study door, a shot rang out in the narrow space, fracturing the calm into a thousand pieces. He had little time or need to react as the door opened. The scene before him spoke for it all: a torso coming to rest on a heavy wooden desk, a crimson pool spreading beneath it. The gun just beyond the hand sent up lazy tendrils of smoke.

Dispassionate, unthinking, Bodie set out to do what he had come here for.

He moved to the desk.

He pulled the chair out.

He manoeuvred the still-warm body around until he could heft it in a fireman's carry.

He lifted it onto his shoulders.

All the doors he'd passed through earlier were still open, so it was easy enough to move the sack-like figure down the hall, out of the building, and into the boot of the waiting Capri. Nothing to be said, all carried out neatly, as efficient as he ever was.

If only he could remember when he'd been efficient before.

======================

_Sometimes, deep in the bush, away from civilization - even using the term loosely - the lads would sit around of a Saturday night and tell of other times and places. Sometimes they made themselves out to be supermen, or expert escape artists, or sires of entire dynasties, as they cleaned and checked their weapons. Sometimes they just needed to let off the steam of an unsure existence._

_This Saturday was no different, New Year's Eve or not._

_"I'm tellin' ya, Bodie, it's true." This from Evans, who had the reputation among the men of being a bit touched, although there was none better to guard your back when it mattered._

_"Right, Evans. Anything you say."_

_"Saw it with me own eyes."_

_Blue eyes blazed back disbelief._

_"No, can't prove it. But seen too many things - too many odd things happened with that lot to just write it off."_

_"Really."_

_"Yes, really. Jacobs, for one. We'd all seen Jacobs laid out dead. And then they did their mumbo-jumbo and he was good as new, though a little the worse for wear. That was when I learned to keep me mouth shut and not second guess what they did and did not know."_

_"Right, and now you're telling me there's some bloke wandering around the bush, cleaning up after other peoples' missions."_

_"Not quite. No, apparently, they have some lore that the last bloke to die on New Year's Eve has to do all cleanups for the next year. Murdered souls, suicides, old-age pensionsers, accident victims, even our lot: whoever dies, he has to clean up for Death. Or the Grim Reaper, or whatever you want to call it."_

_"Makes no sense. What could someone do to be condemned to that?"_

_"Not what they'd done, but when they'd done it. It's the dyin' - and dyin' during that transition phase. What the natives call 'daraja,' the bridge. Because of that bridge linking the old and the new, that straddling of some invisible line, they get caught in limbo and forced to do the bidding of Death. And when our other mate Lee had the misfortune of curling up his toes just as the year was passing - and believe me, the locals did everything possible to to keep him alive just long enough to make it into the new year - he was thought to become one of those reapers, doomed to live a thousand years in one as he gathered souls for Death._

_"Maybe it's hell, maybe it's a sort of penance for his sins. But it isn't a choice. You die on the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, you do the time."_

_Bodie snorted and returned to the gun parts laid out before him. Evans - a good lad, but maybe it was time for him to head back home._

======================

"Young man, you look to be in quite a state."

Startled from his gaze up at the tall building – _office block_ – before him, Bodie wrenched his head down, completely startled by the old woman in the wool coat and comfortable shoes peering at him. 

He hadn't noticed anyone noticing him; the challenging voice had startled him. 

The old woman looked steadily back at him, concern etched into the lines on her face. 

"You can see me." That had never happened before. It'd been quite a while since he'd had any interaction with another being.

"Of course I can." Her breath hung in the cold. "And what a sight you are. It looks like you haven't had a good meal or even a good cuppa in heaven knows how long. And your car - shouldn't you have that looked at? It wouldn't be good to break down in the middle of nowhere."

Bodie hadn't noticed, truthfully - he'd been too focused on his missions - but come to think of it, the car looked as though it had aged _decades_ since… whenever he'd last noticed. Dents along its sides, a deep gouge running across the bonnet. Dust and dead leaves and such stuck in the grill and under the windscreen wipers. 

It hadn't been like that before. Cowley would have his guts for garters.

_Cowley._

"Take it from me, young man." His attention swung back to the woman. "Yes, best to take care of yourself, and what you have got. I didn't, and I lost my huband. Fifteen years ago this month. He hadn't been feeling well for a while. An aneurysm, they said. Miss him every minute of the day, too.

"But listen to me go on." She reached out and patted Bodie on his forearm. He thought he could see the bones in her hand. "What's your name, then?"

"William. Bodie." Vocal cords strained to get the sounds out.

"William Bodie. Well, you - you just take care of you and yours, Mr. William Bodie, because there's no getting them back once they've left you. Just remember that; don't take them for granted, and don't make the mistake I did. See to your business, and bring the warmth back into your soul; you may want to be tough, but I know it's in there, in your heart."

"Will remember that." A part of him wanted to tell her Bodie, just Bodie, but he focused more on what her words commanded. _Take care of you and yours, Mr. William Bodie._

_Me and mine._

"Good - and well you should. Some thing are not meant to be forgotten. But," and she sighed a pause, "these old bones are a bit tired, so I'll just get them home and take a rest. Not as young as I used to be - or as young as you are, tired or not." She gave him a gentle smile. "And please do remember to take care of yourself.

"Well, I'll be leaving then. Goodbye, Mr. William Bodie."

"Goodbye, ma'am." The drive to duty had dissipated; this was no longer where he was meant to be. He opened the driver's door of the Capri and slipped into the seat, door hinges wheezing shut behind him; drove off, thoughtful.

The woman turned to stand a bit longer, watching the car disappear around a curve. "That poor Mr. Bodie, has too much weight on his shoulders. I hope that he does get back to the things most important to his life. 

"And he really should take that car to the garage."

Later that night, Mrs. Edith Morton, widowed, of 72 Sidney Street, E1, had brewed herself a cuppa and was settling herself down in her chair. Nothing on the television that night, but she had a good book of crosswords she'd been saving. She settled into the chair, remembering the young man, William Bodie. Looked like death warmed up, and lost at the same time. She hoped he would find whatever it was he was looking for. 

She leaned back in the comfort of the armchair, resting her head against the back. She'd had a good life, but she was so tired. She was ready to see her Edmund soon, had been for years. 

She closed her eyes.

======================

The sights, the smells: antiseptic, sterility, even the boiled food. He'd know them anywhere and he knew he hated them. He was in a hospital.

Bodie found himself noticing the details of his missions now. One time, it was into a nursery for a terribly sickly young child; another, it was after a cantankerous old drunk who stumbled, and fell, and hit his head after a quick tussle with his drinking buddies. A part of him was horrified at this world in which he'd found himself; but he carried out his orders like a good soldier and retrieved the - bodies? souls? not sure - whatever it was, he retrieved them as directed, with no additional intel about what happened afterwards. For he did not know what happened after each form was placed into the boot and the top closed over them. All he knew was that each time he opened the lid, preparatory to placing another body amidst the jack and the spare tyre, the space was empty, as though nothing had ever been in there before.

He looked up at the building again, then entered and moved over to the elevator bank. So this cleanup job was at a hospital. His steps guided him to the intensive care unit and silently past the nurses's station, where none of the nurses saw him. They took him into a smallish room, with one of its beds occupied.

He stepped around the curtain and moved closer to the bed. The man lying in the shadows turned his face away from the windows and towards Bodie, emerald eyes focusing on his. 

"Bodie." Quiet, pain-tinged. "Mate. That you?"

Bodie stopped, frozen in his tracks. The collections were _never_ animated, never looked at him and spoke to him.

"Told me - you were dead. Not true, then? or here to see me off?"

_Take care of you and yours, Mr. William Bodie._

"Bodie?"

 _Partner._

"Doyle." The name sprung out, as though it had always been on his tongue.

"Yes." He winced slightly. "Worse for wear. And you - takin' a bullet for me. Can't do that."

_No, it could not be Doyle who was the cleanup; Doyle was meant to -_

"Stay here."

"Berk, can't go. Won't before thumpin' you. What're you out of bed for, anyway?"

======================

_Bodie didn't like this, didn't like this at all. He was meant to go in with Doyle, to cover Doyle. They were partners; and as much as he respected and deferred to to Cowley's authority and abilities, this time he was sure the old man had gone too far, was making a colossal mistake._

_Maybe he'd found out somehow and was punishing them, separating them._

_"Permission to speak, sir. You can't do that - send Doyle in like that. He needs backup."_

_" **Can't** do that? Are you questioning orders, Bodie?"_

_"No, sir - yes. You can't break us up, sir. Doyle can't go in there unprotected, with no cover - "_

_"I am the Comptroller of CI5, Bodie, not you. I give the orders, and what I say, goes."_

_"Doyle's life isn't -"_

_"And I did not give you permission to speak, Bodie."_

_"Sir - "_

_"One more word, Bodie, and you will be out of this organization. And Doyle will not have to worry about whether or not his partner is there."_

_Bodie shut his mouth, although the look in his eyes spoke volumes._

_"And don't look at me like that. Ach, man, you know that I don't treat my agents' lives lightly. I have an interest and an investment in each one of you. But you are here to do a job - as I am - and the risks are known before each one of you walks in the door. Now: Doyle is the best man for this job, and in he goes. It is a solo job, so you do not. And I thoroughly expect that in a few weeks the man will produce the intelligence that we need and walk out in one piece._

_"Case closed, Bodie. Doyle agreed to the assignment and is already on his way. If you don't agree, you may leave your resignation with Betty. I will not allow insubordination in my ranks."_

_Cowley turned to sit again at his desk, beginning to thumb through the files stacked to the side._

_Bodie stood, looking at the the ceiling, not uttering a word. He knew better than to do so; the result would make filing look like a vacation on the Riviera._

_"Dismissed, Bodie."_

_The silent man turned and left, pulling the door to behind him, just this side of slamming._

_The Comptroller of CI5 reached for a glass decanter and poured himself a shot of whisky. "Ach, Bodie," he muttered, "this isn't about you. Don't you think I would have preferred doing this differently if there were a choice?"_

======================

_They laid sprawled across the sheets, together for a silent moment. Bodie didn't want to think yet, just wanted to savour what had just happened before having to figure it out. It was still new, and wonderful, and he wanted to enjoy that._

_Doyle, however, had other ideas._

_"He must know. He has to." Doyle stared out the window of the apartment, watching the angry downpour of the summer storm._

_Bodie wasn't sure yet how he felt about this small, new thing between them. "Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Probably not; because I'm sure the fine print would come into play here, and this would likely fall under that little line about fraternization amongst the ranks."_

_Doyle turned his head to face his partner. "Christ, Bodie, he's Cowley! He knows when you sneezes. He knows when you piss. No way he could not know."_

_He'd do most anything for his partner; but, Doyle being Doyle, Bodie could see the man taking this too seriously. They were the Bisto Kids, but this was just a bit of fun, no? "Doyle - you worry about things too much."_

_"Because it's bleeding Cowley, idiot. And knowing the Cow, he'll hold onto the information until it becomes useful to him."_

_"And what do you suppose we do about it, Doyle?"_

_"Tell him. This - the partnership - is important, too important to get co-opted."_

_Bodie looked into the intense green eyes. Intense about work, about life, about everything. It **was** just a bit of fun. Nothing more, nothing to make a fuss over. "Oh, yes - so the partnership can be dissolved because of personal involvement, or we get drummed out for conduct unbecoming? Use your head for once, Doyle. Telling him isn't going to get us very far."_

_"Well, what would you suggest then? We don't tell him, and he finds out, that's grounds for dismissal."_

_" **Telling him** is grounds for dismissal, Doyle. This is the master of triple-think we're discussing; let's not go into this blindly."_

_"Don't be a berk. If he doesn't know already he will soon enough."_

_By this point Bodie wasn't thinking clearly, was getting angry. "Let's not do it by half, then - let's just leave the mob. That would solve the problem."_

_"Yeah? And do what? Don't see much call for hired killers in the want ads, mate."_

_"Don't be dramatic about it. And we have got plenty of choices. We could - we could be security men. Hired muscle."_

_"Yes, and what did you have in mind for after the month you would last doing that?" Scrabbling noise as clothing was hastily gathered."Not being dramatic, being realistic - and seeing this is much riskier than you're willing to believe. Won't walk blindly into a disaster, mate."_

_"C'mon, Doyle, it's not worth - "_

_But the door was slamming shut, and Doyle gone._

======================

As New Year's Eves went, this was certainly proving to be one for the record books.

Everyone in CI5 knew that with this mob, there was nothing called a guaranteed holiday. It didn't have to be in the small print; it was pretty much writ bold across the contract. So it wasn't a surprise when virtually everyone not already on assignment was called in for the obbo. It looked guaranteed to be a long few days and a trying wait.

Bodie was glad about one thing, however; this meant the end of Doyle's undercover job - for this was indeed his obbo - and the man would be back soon enough. And they could straighten out what they hadn't resolved.

He'd been on tenterhooks since the Cow had sent his partner away with the _wrongness_ of it. Normally, separate obbos didn't bother Bodie much; but this one felt wrong, it settled unease into his bones. 

Doyle could be a stubborn, moody cuss at the best of times. But Bodie knew, and he was sure that Doyle knew, that they had to clear the air on this, had to decide what to do about what was between them, so it didn't get in the way of the partnership and get one of them killed. There'd been some near-misses already. Which he was sure was why Doyle had charged off on this solo op with no word to him. Probably thought it was better to swan off than let the tension break apart the partnership.

 _At least we'll spend New Year's Eve in the same place._ He hadn't seen him in months.

The entrance to the warehouse was just down from where Bodie stood tucked into an entry of an adjacent building. From his vantage point, bone-chilled but alert, he could hear the mutterings of a low discussion within the cavernous space of the building. He'd guess that by this point, the mob Doyle was with were getting restless; their contact was running late, and the drop was meant to be made by midnight. Restlessness was never a good thing with desperate men.

The rattle of an old Ford Rambler broken the silence. The chugging engine carried two shadows past him, slowing to come to a halt several doors down. _This must be it, then._ The contact would come out; they'd make the exchange; and then CI5 would move in and gather up the lot of them. The goods, the act, the proof would be in the bag. And he and Doyle would write up their reports, go over to one of their apartments, and make their own holiday. He hoped.

 _Let's get this over, then._ Bodie could hardly wait.

Two men exited the car. Pacing themselves slowly, speaking in low tones, they passed by Bodie's location as they made their the way towards the warehouse. One paused long enough to light a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face. 

_Charley Turkel._ A two-bit courier, but one they'd run across during an earlier obbo. One who would know who Doyle was - and wasn't. And who would more than gladly expose his cover.

The figures moved on until they were even with the warehouse. One of the large doors slid back to reveal several men, Doyle among them. 

Bodie whipped out his R/T and spoke into it, low and quick. "3.7 here. We are compromised. Doyle's cover is blown. I'm going in. Communications blackout." He shut off the device to silence it against further noise.

One of the men gruffly greeted the new arrivals. "Oy, there you are. What took you so long?"

Turkel replied, his familiar rasp grating on Bodie's nerves. "Was delayed. S'New Year's Eve, you know; people out and about. And -"

Bodie could tell the second when the man had put two and two together, had already started pelting up the pavement the short distance to the warehouse door, gun drawn. The whole scene was playing out like a macabre dance before him. Turkel had a scowl across his face, was muttering, "Hang on a minute, what's he doing 'ere?"

One of Doyle's companions, who Bodie recognized as Henry Laughlin, was turning quickly, reaching for his gun as Turkel yelled indignantly, "he's CI5, you know."

Doyle, as the new man, was unarmed -

Laughlin was pointing the gun at Doyle's midsection, the safety already off -

Footsteps were sounding hot and heavy against the pavement behind Bodie, the rest of CI5 coming up behind him -

Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower began to ring in the New Year - 

And Bodie reached his target, pushing into Doyle and taking the full impact of the bullet aimed at the other man's heart. 

======================

Doyle.

The man in the hospital bed was Raymond Doyle.

And it all came back to him. He knew who Doyle was, who he had been in Bodie's life. - _Still is._

_No._

_Whatever it is I'm doing – I won't take Doyle. Or if I do, I swear I'll follow him into hell and bring him back._

_Alive._

_Do you hear me? I said NO. You can't have him._

There had to be a way to change this. He would find a way.

======================

Bodie slid out of the shadows, to fall into step lightly behind the slight figure ahead. The late November snow crunched underfoot.

 _God, it's nice to see him again._ "Eh, did you drop something, there, mate?" 

The mop of curls, messy as always, turned to see him - then turned back.

"Fuck off, Bodie. If you ruin this you'll have me to deal with long before Cowley gets to you."

"Make your damn contact meets next time, then, Sunshine."

"You're not my contact."

"Well, today I am. So spill your guts."

"Drop, New Year's Eve. Warehouse at the end of Miller's Way. Should have all the major players there."

"You got protection?"

"'Course not. New guy's on probation, doesn't get anything."

"You going to be able to get out of there, then?"

"Who knows? Only out for five minutes now, so hurry it up." Doyle stomped his feet to warm up.

 _What to say to him..._ "Just wanted you to know - solo op, but I'm watching your back. I'll always watch your back, Doyle. In CI5 or out. Will sort out the rest later."

Doyle stood silently looking at him for a few seconds. As he turned to continue on and resume his cover, the words, "Yeah, I know," floated back to Bodie as Doyle walked away.

======================

The lights seemed bright.

Bodie didn't want to open his eyes to them, but he sensed that there was a reason to regain consciousness, there was something that needed attention. 

He turned to his left, his eyes slowly opening - to see Doyle, sitting in a wheelchair, looking back at him.

"So, Sleeping Beauty - finally decided to grace us with your presence, then?"

The green eyes showed lines of strain around the edges, and perhaps a little bit of morphine and painkillers, but there was happiness and a shared amusement in them, all the same.

As he became more aware of his body, Bodie also became more aware of stiffness and pain and sluggishness. 

"Told you, dumb crud - don't stop bullets for me, and you won't have to worry about catching up on your beauty sleep. A couple more inches, and it might've been a bit more than your shoulder."

"Don't volunteer to be a hero, and I won't have to." The banter was there, but tinged with seriousness. "What did you think you were doing, volunteering for that obbo? Especially with Charley Turkel hooked to that lot."

"Didn't exactly volunteer, now did I? And who was to know that Turkel was involved until it was too late to break cover."

"So Alpha One waved some candy, and you went running?"

"That's about the measure of it."

"Told you not to take candy from strange men. You definitely need a minder. Can't leave you alone anywhere by yourself, now can I?"

"Look who's talking. Cowley isn't a stranger. Then again, many crimes are committed by known associates."

"Then again, _plod_ , he may not have been a stranger, but he could be called a strange man. Off at all hours, hither and yon, never seen to eat or sleep. He could be from an alien world."

"Yeah, alien world named Scotland, where they eat their young. Or their young employees, anyway."

Bodie looked into the green eyes with their hint of mischief and amusement, then to the calendar on the wall beyond Doyle. The third of January. Lost a few days, but not all of them. _Started off a bit dodgy, but it would be a good year._ He’d see to that.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a New Year's, rather than an Xmas, fic. It's based very loosely on a part of the 1921 film [_The Phantom Carriage_ ( _Körkarlen_ )](http://www.criterion.com/films/27630-the-phantom-carriage), and some general Xmas lore. 
> 
> WARNING: it's not cheery, and there are character deaths implied and real. Read at your own risk.
> 
> I'd like to thank Solosundance for her beta: a bang-up job as always. ;-)
> 
> All rights to _The Professionals_ and _Körkarlen_ belong to their respective rights holders (i.e., not me).


End file.
